


Marry Me a Little

by eatdirt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Existential Angst, Gen, Humor, Introspection, Platonic Relationships, gencest, mentions of past relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatdirt/pseuds/eatdirt
Summary: Sam learned at a very young age that sometimes lying was necessary in order to do what needed to be done. Of course, that was more about impersonating law enforcement to catch things that go bump in the night rather than pretending to be married to your brother in order to give him a 41st birthday to remember.Or: The one where Sam Winchester contemplates the void of dying alone.





	Marry Me a Little

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the Gencest Bang! I had so much fun writing for this challenge and getting to step into unfamiliar territory: Sam's POV. The art is by the lovely and incredibly talented [small-scale-majestic](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/small-scale-majestic)!  
>  
> 
> The title is from the number of the Sondheim musical _Company_ ([seen here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzA97oMW2_M) performed beautiful by Raul Esparza).

Sam learned at a very young age that lying was necessary.

If they were running low on cash and the ten buck buffet line said kids eat for free, Sam would go from 14 to 12 as quickly as it took a hostess to smile and pinch his cheeks. When Sam got too old and too tall to play convincing 10-year-old, he’d help dean smuggle cokes and chips candy into movie theaters. Sam Winchester had been a police officer, social worker, a fireman, and, once, an exotic dancer.

He didn’t like thinking of them is _scams_ per se, especially when most of the time it was done for the greater good., or because they had no other choice. 

In this particular instance, it was neither for the greater good or because Sam had no choice—it was because he momentarily lost the ability to think rationally. In his defense, so much of his brain power had been spent working out the logistics of these ambitious birthday plans that by the time he had gotten to the Gaylord Hotel in Topeka, he wasn’t operating at full capacity.

“Is this for someone special?” the perky receptionist had asked as he shuffled through his wallet for James P. Sullivan’s credit card.

Without thinking Sam had said, “Yes,” because Dean _was_ special. Unfortunately, his idea of a special person was a lot different from her — and most of the population’s—idea of a special person. And that’s how he ended up booking a free two-night stay in the honeymoon suite with his own brother.

She gasped and grinned from ear-to-ear. “Oh, congratulations! We love couples here at the Gaylord.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Sam sputtered.

“That means you’re eligible for a free upgrade to our Lovebirds package! It comes with a free round of cricket, a private wine and cheese tasting, and a three night stay in our Amore Room for the same price as the standard package!”

She brandishes a red brochure with the words “Lovebirds Package” written on top. The font and colors are so blatantly romantic that Sam nearly blushes head-to-tip.

It takes him almost a solid five seconds of swallowing before he can choke out at words. “Oh! Oh, no. I—ha, no. There’s been a bit of a—is that wine and cheese tasting complementary?”

He points to a sparkly red section of the brochure. She beams.

“It sure is! The Lovebirds package is a flat rate of $800 for newlyweds or couples renewing their vows. Along with the room and wine and cheese tasting, you and your spouse also receive two private golf lessons with our on-site instructor and a two-course meal in our exclusive Hutchinson Lounge!”

Sam rubs his temples as the first throbs of an impending headache begin to emerge. “That sounds… amazing, actually.”

So, what was the problem with a little lie if it could add a little pleasure to his brother’s birthday?

Dean loved pigging out on cheese and immersing himself in the rare luxuries of life, but all of those extra perks would be an extra $1200 and on top of the room he’d booked, which is already going to cost an arm and a leg. 

Dean deserves a thousand rounds of golf and a million wine tasting for the forty years of absolute shit he’s had to shovel. 

And, honestly, Sam has always wanted to do the whole ‘romantic getaway’ thing. Not with his brother, of course, but someone. In college, he made too little to treat Jess to anything other than a night in with Chinese takeout and whatever was in the discount DVD bin at Walmart. Amelia wasn’t the romantic type, and other men and women just hadn’t lasted long enough for Sam to even try to make that kind of impression.

This—a romantic hotel package for two with his brother—might be the closest he ever gets.

He doesn’t have time to fully appreciate how positively wretched that thought is. 

With the kind of decisive bravado he only reserves for impersonating law enforcement, Sam slams his credit card on the counter.

“We’ll take it.”

_____________________

The hotel was the first part of the plan. The concert was the second.

As it turned out, out with modern advances in technology, buying Van Halen tickets with a fake credit card wasn’t as easy as it used to be. He could have gotten them from scalpers on some shady site, but Dean at least deserved an unobstructed view of David Lee Roth’s aged-leather face. That meant 

Sam’s idea of fun isn’t standing in a hot, crowded room with a bunch of middle-aged mulletheads desperately trying to relive their golden years, but it is Dean’s idea of fun, so Sam buys two tickets and doesn’t tell Dean about them until the weekend before his 40th birthday.

By the morning they were set to leave Sam still hasn’t told his brother about the hotel. Dean is in such a genuinely good mood, a rare occurrence these days. Humming Ain't Talkin' 'bout Love while he packs, hips swishing and shoulder temporarily relieved of the burden of the world. It would be cruel to tell him now, Sam reasons. He’s just so goddamn _happy_.

“You all packed, Sasquatch?” Dean quips.

He’s already at the door with that happy, expectant look on his face. Sam should just tell him now, rip it off like a band-aid.

“Reservation for Sam Winchester. By the way, my husband died, so I brought my brother along. This is Dean. Yes, my brother and my late husband have the same first name. Funny, right?”

Right.

That wasn’t happening.

“Packed and ready to go,” Sam says instead because even though he’s fought monsters and ghouls and the Devil himself, he’s still a coward.

He stays a coward all the way to the hotel. Right up until the car is parked and they’re walking to the building, Dean chattering on excitedly about his dream setlist for tomorrow night.

They’re halfway to the automatic doors when Sam spins around and says, “I have something to tell you.”

Dean cocks a brow. “Oh?”

“You remember when I was twelve and you snuck me into the All You Can Eat buffet at Charlie’s by telling the hostess I was ten? You said sometimes it’s necessary to lie to do what you need to.”

Dean squints, suspicious. “Uh, yeah. I remember. Is this walk down memory lane going somewhere, or are you just trying to make me feel old?”

Sam lets out a wheezing woosh of air. “I… I might have let the receptionist believe that we were a couple because she upgraded us to this stupid expensive honeymoon suite that’s got a private jacuzzi and, like, five cooling jets and our crappy, $120-a-night room wasn’t that great and it’s your _birthday_ , so—”

“Dude. This is awesome.”

Sam falters. “Uh… really?”

Dean’s grinning ear-to-ear.“Getting to stay in a schmoozy hotel on top of seeing David Lee Roth in the flesh? This birthday weekend has barely even started and I’m already losing my mind. Homerun, baby brother.”

He calls Sam on the shoulder and wiggles his brows. “My husband, the scam artist.”

Sam’s so relieved he doesn’t even stop to think about how fucked up it all is until they’re in their room. The moment the door is closed his jaw drops straight to the floor.

There’s only one bed, because of course there’s only one bed. What honeymooners book two separate beds in a romantic suite?

The rose petals are a bit much. Dean actually doubles over laughing at the sight of it. Sam questions every decision he has ever made.

Once Dean pulls himself together he claps Sam on the shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“Don’t think you’re getting lucky, Sammy,” he laughs. “I’m not a cheap date.”

Sam shrugs him off. This is officially a bad idea. No, this is officially the worst idea anyone has ever had.

Dean dumps his duffel bag on the floor and walks about the room. It’s huge, more spacious than any crappy hotel they’ve ever been in. More spacious than either of their rooms, even. The floor space alone means they won’t have to bump into each other while they get ready in the morning. 

Dean whistles lowly when he comes around to the bottle of champagne in the chiller. He picks it up and waves it around to Sam.

“Ooh, this is the fancy shit. I take it back, Sammy. You might get lucky after all.”

Sam groans. “Please stop talking. Just—never speak again.”

There are two glasses on the nightstand by the chiller. He grabs the glasses and brings them over to his brother who’s struggling to pop it open. 

“Jesus,” Dean grunts, “the cheap stuff is way easier to open.”

“Maybe you’re just weak.”

“You’re weak.”

The poking, arguing—it’s familiar. It’s _them_. Sam relaxes. Maybe it doesn’t _have_ to be weird

Dean shoves a flute of champagne in his face and snaps him out of his brooding. Sam takes it and wordlessly lifts it in a mock toast. Dean mirrors him with a small smile.

“To Dean Winchester on his forty-first birthday.”

Dean frowns. “Hey, now. I’m not forty-one just yet. Let’s get ahead of ourselves here.”

Sam chuckles and hits his glass against Dean’s anyway.

_____________________

“Oh, holy shit.”

Oh, holy shit was right, because right there in the corner of the room was a table decked out entirely rose petals with a small, gushing chocolate fountain as a gold-plated centerpiece. And if there was any chance that Cupid-covered eyesore wasn’t for them, the waitress delightedly waving them over squashed any hope Sam had left.

Dean sighs heavily. “I… think that’s our table, buddy.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let’s do this.”

Dean makes a grab for his hand but Sam speeds up ahead of him, leaving Dean cackling behind him.

The waitress waits until they’re both seated before speaking, “Welcome, Mr. and Mr. Smith!”

Dean smiles as her. “Thank you…” his eyes flick to her nametag, which is coincidentally right on her ample chest, “Heather.”

Sam rolls his eyes. There’s no use keeping his “husband” from flirting with the waitress. At least one of them should be able to find romance this weekend.

Heather clasps her hands behind her back and beams at them both. “Tonight we have a special Lovers’ Pappardelle with bacon and cauliflower, and a nice garlic meatball recipe that is to die for. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you can go south of the border with our Lovebird _Arroz Tapado_. For dessert, you can dig into our chef’s special strawberry pavlova or our world-famous tiramisu!”

Dean whistles. “Yeah, we’ll have that.”

“Which one?”

“All of it.” He turns to Sam and grins. “It’s my birthday, after all.”

Sam’s powerless in the face of Dean’s enthusiasm, even though the idea of eating pappardelle _and_ Peruvian _and_ cake _and_ tiramisu gives him preemptive indigestion. 

He smiles at Heather and gives a helpless shrug. “It is his birthday. And, uh, this is still all complementary, right?”

“Of course, sir.”

She turns to leave, but Dean stops her. “And can we get more of these strawberries? Maybe two bowls? Thanks, sweetheart.”

She smiles and nods, then slips away.

Once, with Amelia, Sam saved up enough from his handyman job to take her out to a nice restaurant. The Bullion, it was. The kind of place where you had to call in and make a reservation online. The kind of place that showed you the door if you showed up without a suit jacket.

Maybe it was his stupid male brain combined with the hours of romantic comedies he’d seen in his life but made that reservation and he got his suit jacket and he invited her out to dinner.

He’d looked out of place in his cheap FBI suit, frayed at the sleeves from too many washings. Amelia hadn’t fared much better

He didn’t know why he’d chosen to take her there. Fulfillment of a distant fantasy, maybe, of taking a pretty girl out on the town just to see her eyes light up with gratitude.

Gratitude isn’t what lit Amelia’s eyes up. 

“I can’t believe you thought this was a good idea,” she had scolded him, lightly, as they drove back to the hotel. A doggy bag of The Bullion’s cheapest dessert went cold on the seat between them.

Sam had kept his eyes on the road, murmured something about momentary lapses in judgment, which she then laughingly replied, _"You sure you don’t mean ‘temporary insanity’?"_

A chocolate-covered strawberry is shoved into his face.

“Say, ‘ _ahh_ ’, Sammy.”

Sam swats at it. “Get that thing out of my face.”

“It’s a chocolate-covered strawberry, Sam. it’s not poison.” He pops it in his mouth, then goes in for another one. 

“You’re going to ruin your dinner if you keep choking those down.”

Dean waves him off. “Whatever. I promise you, I’ll still have room for tiramisu.” He pauses, then lifts the bowl of strawberries directly in his face. “You’ll still have room, too. Come on, Sam. It’s my birthday.”

For one, inexplicable moment, Sam considers refusing. To push Dean’s buttons, maybe. To put some sibling spat back into this weird moment. To distance himself from what all this means. The memories and emotions this dumb hotel restaurant is stirring in him.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the offered strawberry and dips it in the wall of cascading chocolate.

It’s sweet.

_____________________

“ _Fore_!”

“He really likes saying that, doesn’t he?” Their golf instructor, Bill, asks with a bemused smile.

The golf lesson started first thing in the morning. Sam was up early for it thanks to the heart-shaped couch being the most uncomfortable thing he’d ever slept on, forest floors be damned. It had been Dean’s enthusiasm alone that had gotten Sam out the door at all.

Sam rubs the back of his neck as he watches his brother swing and miss the ball twice in quick succession. “We, uh, we’ve never really played golf before, so. I think he’s going with what he knows.”

Bill laughs. “Well, both of you are naturals.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to lie.”

“Bill! Sam! I fucking hit it!”

“Good job! Way to hustle!” Bill yells out, shouldering his club to clap. Sam silently applauds him for not even sounding sarcastic while doing it. Either this hotel pays even better than Sam thought, or Bill is used to training terrible guests.

Dean jogs over with a smile that stretches almost passed his ears. “Dude, you gotta give this a go. I feel like one of those rich douchebags that eat caviar and cheat on their wives with foreign nannies and shit. No offense, Bill.”

“None taken.”

Sam examines the bag of clubs and grabs the biggest one. Bill frowns. Sam puts that one back and grabs a smaller one. Bill gives him a thumbs up.

It’s while walking up to the tee that Sam remembers something: he hates golf.  
He’s always hated golf. He hated putt-putt as a kid, and he hated how golf was always on the TV of every hospital he had ever been in. 

Jessica’s dad, Henry, had loved golf. The one time they’d met, briefly after Spring Break when both he and Jessica had decided to stay home—her, because she wanted a break from her relatives; him, because he couldn’t go back if he tried. Henry had clapped him on the back and said, _“You know, I’m on the board of the Shady Oaks Country Club. We should do a few rounds.”_ Which Sam knew meant, _”You’re dating my daughter so I want to get you in an unfamiliar place to put the screws to you.”_

He stops at the tee, positions himself the way Bill had taught him, and swings. The ball goes sailing through the air. Sam has to shield his eyes from the sun to see where it lands inches from the hole.

“Goddamn, Sammy!”

“Great work, Sam!”

Sam looks over his shoulders at Bill’s genial smile and Dean’s enthusiastic thumbs up. He gives the thumbs up back. He even lets loose a genuine chuckle when Dean scrambles for the golf cart, ready for the next leg of the lesson. 

The sun is high in the sky and sweat is peppering his temples. His shoulder is smarting from where a ghoul threw him on a hunt last week. Golf is still the dumbest, more boring sport ever created.

But Dean is having the time of his goddamn life, so Sam turns around and goes back. He drags his feet, but he does go back.

_____________________

Dean’s all jittery the night of the concert. Sam sits on the bed and watches, amused, as Dean scurries around the bathroom in his threadbare Van Halen shirt, muttering to himself.

“If we don’t get a good parking spot, or—God forbid—if one of these middle-aged messes scratches my girl I am going to burn that stadium down.”

“Down, boy. We haven’t even left the hotel yet and you’re already plotting murder.”

Dean ignores him. “I hope we get a good view of the stage when they do _Runnin’ with the Devil_. Man, they better do _Runnin’ with the Devi_ l.”

Sam looks down at the satin bedspread and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get better seats.”

“Dude, shut up. This is the best present I have ever gotten in, like, my whole life.”

Sam looks up and grins. “Are you counting the hat I bought you in third grade?” 

Dean emerges from the bathroom and sits down on the edge of the jacuzzi to pull on his boots. “Honestly? That tie was hideous. Green and yellow? What the hell were you thinking?”

“Then why did you wear it so much?”

“Because your stupid face would light up when I did, idiot.”

Sam knows that—he _knows_ Dean’s done shit, big and small, just to make him happy, But, for some reason, it’s this that leaves him momentarily speechless. He doesn’t say a word all the way to the venue. Dean either doesn’t notice or decides to give him his space, instead turning up the radio to blast _Runnin’ with the Devil_ with the windows down the whole way there.

Even though they arrived early to avoid the crowds the stadium is packed when they arrived. It’s easy enough to find their seats, though: the nosebleeds only a few seats away from being classified as “obstructed view.” In his defense, making money isn’t as easy when you stay in one spot as opposed to staying on the run. Still, he’s embarrassed that _this_ is the best he could do for the person who has dedicated the last thirty-seven years of his life to giving him a better life.

For his part, Dean doesn’t look put out one bit. “I can’t believe I’m going to say David _fucking_ Lee Roth jam his heart out tonight. Can you believe, Sam?”

“I bought the tickets. So, yeah.”

The lights go down and the strobes turn on. The loud murmur of the crowd turns into one all-out scream as the band walks on stage. Next to him, a middle-aged woman lifts her shirt and shakes her chest at Eddie, who’s definitely too far away to see them.

Dean elbows him in the side to get his attention. “This is going to be so fucking epic.”

Sam can only smile as the first chords of _Somebody Get Me A Doctor_ fill the stadium.

_____________________

It’s late enough when they get back to the hotel that the lobby is basically empty. Sam half-drags, half-carries Dean to the elevator and up their floor, cheap stadium beer and sloshing around in both their guts. The joint their row passed around softens the edges around Sam’s vision, leaving him off-center but feeling good. He props Dean up against the door while he searches for the keycard. He’s nowhere near as shit-faced as his brother, but it takes a few tries to get the key to go in.

“How many times has that happened to you, Sammy?” Dean snickers.

“Shut up.”

They stumble over the threshold and into the room. Dean trips over nothing, the way drunks are wont to do, and hits his knees on the plush red carpet. 

“Shit, this carpet is soft,” he murmurs as he pulls himself back up.

Sam goes to the bathroom to fill champagne flutes with water. When he comes back, Dean is sitting in the jacuzzi with his feet propped up on the faucet.

“The jacuzzi? Really?” He snorts. He hands Dean a glass and waits for him to down it before he follows suit.

“I’m getting your money’s worth out of this room if it kills me.”

The room is dark. The only light spilled in from the bathroom, casting shadows across the walls and Dean’s smiling face. Sam laughs at his stupid, beautiful forty-one-year-old brother smiling in an empty love hotel jacuzzi as he sits down heavily on the edge of the bed to toe his shoes off.

“So, how’s forty-one feeling?” 

Dean stretches his leg up in the air. “Sore.”

“That’s what happens to your joints when you get up in age, old man.”

“Shut up or I’ll drown you in this fabulous tub.”

Sam laughs, which prompts Dean to laugh, too. He leans back against the headboard and takes a breath. He did it. He gave Dean the best birthday he possibly could. And it still wasn’t enough.

Dean deserves a thousand more good birthdays to make up for all the shitty ones. Hotel rooms with jacuzzis and big, king-sized beds with thousand-count sheets. Golf tutors, shooting ranges, and wrestling matches. Four-course meals with chocolate drizzled over everything. A beautiful woman with full breasts to share it instead of his little brother.

“You sucking on lemons over there, Sammy?” Dean calls softly.

Sam meets his eyes, then looks away. “You know… this is the most romantic weekend I’ve ever had.”

“No shit.”

“No, I mean…” Sam trails off, forehead bunching as he tries to piece together his drink-addled thoughts into something semi-coherent. “I mean, you know, I’ve had girlfriends before. Women I really, really liked. I never go to to do any of this shit with them. Even when I did, it turned out crappy.”

Dean’s more alert now, looking at him through alcohol-heavy lids. Sam tries to meet his eyes, but his whole head feels heavy. He drops his chin to his chest and speaks to the carpet.

“I could never imagine me being—being healthy enough or, hell, _living long_ enough to get a girl I could woo with heart-shaped jacuzzis and chocolate fountains.” He closes his eyes briefly, then looks up to meet his brother's eyes again. Dean’s eyes are bright in the pooling light, but unreadable. “I am never going to be married. I know that now. I’d made my peace with that, in my own way, a long time ago. You’re all I got, Dean. You’re it for me.”

Dark emotion flashes across Dean’s face, there and gone in a blink. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then. That must suck for you.”

Sam’s shaking his head before he’s even got the words out. “You would think so, but it doesn’t. I don’t have a girl on my arm to wine and dine and do big, stupid, romantic comedy-level shit with. But—but I have you. And you know what?”

“What?”

“That’s even better.”

“Sam,” Dean says, and it sounds like a warning. There’s something almost like fear in his eyes, so clear Sam can see it from across the room.

“You’ve always been there for me. You’re the one constant in my life, so much so that I can admit I’ve taken you for granted. And I—I hate the thought that I’ve spent so much time not telling you how important you are to me. You’re the most important person in my life, Dean, and there is nowhere I would rather be than with you, right here. Right now.”

Dean licks his lips but doesn’t speak. Sam drops his eyes back to the carpet, inexplicably embarrassed now despite the liquid courage. The longer Dean doesn’t speak, the more uncomfortable he feels. But he doesn’t open his mouth to take it back. He could never take it back.

“Sam,” Dean says, and it means _Look at me_.

Sam looks up. Dean’s somehow harder to read now, but at least he’s speaking.

“You don’t have to say any of those things.”

“Dean—”

“You don’t, Sam. I know, okay? I get it. And I… me too. You’re the most important person in my life, Sammy. You don’t have to do big shit like fancy hotels and golf lessons to show me that. Though, I wouldn’t be opposed to those. Just get me some nudie mags and the occasional six-pack and we’re good.”

Something in Sam snaps and loosens. He lets his smile grow and grow until his cheeks hurt. “You really are a cheap date.”

Dean laughs a little harder than he should. He’s not looking Sam in the eyes anymore, but he doesn’t look upset or hurt, and his smile is genuine. 

Sam’s chest tightens with something that can only be described as love, big and all-encompassing. He has to swallow a few times to keep it from suffocating him, but it feels alright. Dean looks back at him and smiles even wider, so Sam smiles back.

They’re both alright.


End file.
